Old Wounds and Fresh Bandages
by HiImJamie42
Summary: On the anniversary of John's mother's death, Paul find's John a bit more than distressed. Rated T for language. Review please!
1. Facing the Facts

I walked on the streets slowly, a cigarette hanging loosely in-between my teeth, continuing back to the hotel the four of us were occupying. George and Ringo were still out and about, seeing the sights. But I couldn't stay out in the sun and happy chatter knowing that John had been locked inside all day. The fifteenth of July, five years today I think. His mum died today, run over by a drunken policeman.

I tried not to linger on the fact, for John's sake, and for mine. I don't like to think of things that aren't my business.

I took a long drag of my cigarette and then flicked it into a metal ashtray. Before I entered through the glass doors, I turned, hands in my pockets, to gaze at the gorgeous calico colored skies and huff the smoke out of my cheeks.

I sauntered over to the elevator then took the long ride up, and when I finally got there, I walked up the carpeted steps, and then trotted over to the door leading to our flat.

* * *

Paul, Ringo, and George left early in the morning, about seven o' clock. I figured I'd stay behind, either it being my mum's anniversary, or the fact that I'm just fucking lazy, I don't know. After they were ready Paul walked over to me and put his hand on my head, his eyes questioning me. I looked up to him and smiled the biggest I could, and Paul, being the man he is, looked past the pain in my eyes and grinned back, then ruffled my hair before leaving with the two others.

I reached out of my bed and grabbed my guitar, sitting up, crossing my legs, and strumming the coarse strings a bit. I jerked against random notes harshly, D Minor, E Major, G7, they didn't really fit together, but I always felt better feeling the bronze scrape and glide across my nails and my skin. I remembered when I played for my mum, how much she loved it, how she helped me learn and perfect every note.

I went on for hours.

* * *

As I approached the door I could hear faint strumming coming from the other side of the door. The noises came from John, no doubt. I rustled around in my pockets for a while until I found the door key, sticking it in the lock and turning it slowly.

I opened the door, stepping in and closing it behind me.

People tell me you can tell a lot about someone's mood by the music they're playing, and from what I could hear, John was in pain. Anguish even. The chords were loud and slow, so he was jerking his fingers down and then dragging them over the strings. John let out a soft agonizing sigh, and my heartstrings trembled.

I put my right foot in front of my left gingerly, then my left in front of my right. I repeated the process until I stood at the opposite side of where John was sitting. I was surprised, I was expecting him to turn and shout at me to get out. But instead he remained motionless, the pained plucking of his guitar continuing in a morbid waltz.

"John?" I asked softly, leaning over the bed a little.

The playing continued on, unhindered by my words.

"John, can you talk to me?" His sullen song sped up a little, his fingers dancing along the chords. Finally I backed off the bed and rounded it, looking at John. I opened my mouth a bit at what I saw, nearly whimpering.

His face was blank, his thin lips I'd been so used to seeing with a smirk were a straight line, unmoving. His eyes were fixated on the ground, and they seemed colorless without mischief sparkling behind them. I glanced down at the guitar John held so dearly, and the sight brought me to my knees.

His fingers were bleeding. His skin rubbed raw and his nails scathed down to the gory muscle underneath, the strings of his guitar stained red.

"John." I tried to raise my voice to a higher volume, but all that came out was a whispering plea.

I knew I shouldn't have left this morning.

I knew the agony that came with losing a mother, it was impossible to forget. When I'd 'asked' him this morning before we left the flat if he'd be okay, he'd replied with a fake smile, and that was proof enough that he wasn't ok. But being the ignorant man I was, I chose to brush it off and went off to have fun.

I grabbed his right wrist in an attempt to pull him away from his masochistic tool. He refused to let go, but he didn't struggle when I finally pried his fingers back from the strings and wood, like the hands of a dead man.

I set the bloodied instrument on the floor and took his wrists in my hands gently, trying not to move his mangled fingertips.

I looked up to meet John's dead stare, and my lip started to tremble.

John's silky murmur broke the silence I myself was too scared to interrupt.

"I was playin', Paul." His voice was dead, soft and emotionless.

I swallowed back against my fuzzy throat and stroked my thumb across the thin skin covering his wrist bone.

"I think you've done enough, Johnny, you can stop now."

"No, I can't."

I looked up at his face, a breeze of determination shimmering behind his mask of nothing. I looked down at his blood-stained palms and felt a deep sifting in my chest. My heart?

"Give it back." I looked up again. John's voice showed no hint of threat, he was only asking. Why did he seem so calm? His fingers were in ribbons for God's sake! His mum's dead!

I took a deep breath, "No."

"Who 're you to say I can't play? You're not my mum." His stare remained strong, but moisture gathered in front of it.

I wanted to hold him. Moments after he spoke, one small tear split out his eye and his lip quivered through his straight lips. I clutched his hands, carefully of course, wary of his tender fingers.

I bent my head, "No John, 'm not. But, you're hurt, you need to stop."

"No, I fucking don't." He choked.

I looked up at him, determination and sadness showing clearly in his pale face.

"She can't 'ear me if I don't play."

This time it was me who started crying.

* * *

Hello again!

This is going to be a multiple chapter story, so this is only the beginning. I just hit a little bit of writer's block, so it might be a while before I get another chapter up... But if any of you liked this, just tell me! Reviews like crack for me. Y'know, the legal, good-for-you kind of crack. It makes me work faster. :)

P.S. If you can find the little song reference in here, you get a thousand awesomeness points. Or a cookie, whichever I have at the time.

-Jamie


	2. Coming to Terms

I didn't know how long it had been since the boys left. It felt like seconds to me, but I didn't want to stop playing in order to look at a clock.

I didn't hear Paul when he came in, bit I did notice when he gasped and snatched my hand from the strings of my guitar. At first I was a bit in shock at his sudden movement. Why the hell did he do that? It wasn't hurting anyone. I wasn't doing anything…

He set my guitar on the carpet and grasped my hands in his. I looked down at his fingers that held mine, rising a brow and glaring just a tad. Why were my fingers bleeding? I hadn't been playing that long, had I?

I flicked my gaze to Paul, his eyes big and pleading, his lips trembling.

"I was playing, Paul."

He swallowed audibly and stroked along my wrist. My heart fluttered, and I couldn't help but think she was doing this, telling me this was right.

But she was wrong more times than she was right.

"I think you've done enough, Johnny, you can stop now."

"No, I can't."

He wanted me to stop playing to my mother? He couldn't make me stop, and I wouldn't. He looked down at my hands, shaking his head a little.

I relaxed my eyes and back, trying to take a different approach. I needed my guitar, I wanted to her to hear, but I'd have to ask.

"Give it back."

He looked up again, anger and understanding shining in his eyes and replied, "No."

The irritation finally pooled over and I spit, "Who are you to tell me I can't play? You're not my mum." I felt a single tear spill over my eyelid and my lips quiver.

Paul bent his head and clenched my hands, as pain singed the ends of my fingertips.

"I know John. But you're hurt, you need to stop."

I swallowed back against my fuzzy throat and pursed my frowning lips. "No, I fucking don't."

Paul looked up again, and I could tell he was just as close to breaking as I was.

"She can't hear me if I don't play." I managed to choke.

Both dams broke, and after all these years, it was a flood.

Tears flew down my cheeks, slipping off the end of my chin. At this point I didn't care that Paul was here, he should've stayed with George and Ringo, should've left me alone. That way he wouldn't have had to see this, he'd come back with the other two, ask why my fingers were bleeding and then patch them up without a second glance.

But instead he'd actually cared about me and came back.

Good God, this was confusing. I love him so much one second, and the next I want him to fuck off and die.

I looked down at him, tears flowing freely down his baby face and his big brown eyes locked with mine.

For a while we just gazed at each other, salty steams sliding down our faces. After what felt like forever, Paul got up and collapsed onto me, his knees pulled together in-between my legs, his hands still gently grasping my bloodied ones.

Paul sniffed and looked up to me again, a sad smile gingerly tugging the edges of his lips. I tried to return the action, but I could tell my mouth remained unchanged.

I took a deep breath, my lip starting to tremble.

"'m sorry." I muttered, leaning forward and pressing my face into Paul's collar. He let go of my hands and wrapped his around my shoulders, his fingers gripping my hair. He brought his cheek to my neck, fresh tears dribbling down onto my skin and shirt.

Paul ran his thin, nearly feminine, fingers through my hair and whispered to me softly through his tears, "'s okay, love. It'll be okay." I moved my hands from Paul's lap and wrapped them around his waist. I clutched against his skin, gripping it through his thin long sleeved shirt. Must've been doing it too hard though, because shortly after I felt my near-healed fingertips pop open, spilling new blood and staining the back of Paul's white shirt. I gasped at the sudden pain, and burrowed my head deeper into Paul's neck, pulling him closer.

After the longest time of sitting, crying, and bleeding, Paul brought his hands down to my temples, pulling my head up and then pressing his mouth to my forehead warmly. He pulled away and then set his brow against mine, looking into my eyes with his wide, glossy ones.

His eyes spoke volumes, speaking of the day my mum, or perhaps his, died. I'd only known him four or five months, but that was enough to tell that the two of us were special, more so than Eric and Colin and Len, though we would never tell them.

Paul's sweet breath teased the inside of my mouth, and I parted my lips to breathe in more. As I did I felt the air grow warmer, tension stirring the empty air around us. I slowly trailed my gaze up to his eyes, lingering a bit too long on his damp lips. Paul's breathing became slow and light, almost as if he'd stopped completely.

Fuck it, I couldn't take this anymore.

But at the same time, I wondered if I should actually go through with this. I wasn't queer, was I? But did that matter? This was Paul for God's sake, the bloke I had to stop myself from staring at since I met him. So he would've seen it coming right? You can't be that fucking good-looking and not expect to turn heads.

I needed this. My heart hurt, and it seemed like Paul was the only one who could soothe the pain.

My eyelids had slowly dropped down, now covering half my eyes. Paul took a deep breath, blowing his odd sugary scent towards me again. But this time my body skipped the thinking process and got right to the point.

I leaned headfirst, hesitantly capturing Paul's timid mouth between mine.

* * *

I don't think I'd ever seen John cry like this.

Maybe two or three times before this, when his mum died, when Stu died, and possibly another when he was drunk.

But never like this.

After a while of staring in John's profound russet eyes, I felt the intense need to be close to him. He was shaking and choking like a lost child in a storm, and I felt like the mother that needed to comfort him. I stood momentarily, trailing his hands up with mine. I dropped into his lap, still wet with blood, and set our intertwined fingers on my legs. I watched our tears fall on our bloodied hands, mixing and smoothing over John's open skin.

I sniffed and looked up, trying to comfort him with the biggest smile I could conjure.

John stared back, seemingly unchanged, but I could see in his eyes there was a faint shine of hope overshadowed by the misery.

"'m sorry."

He snapped his head forward into my chest, like he wanted to tear himself inside and never see the light of day again. I wouldn't blame him.

I let go of John's hands to tangle mine in his hair, making a sad attempt to comfort him as he slowly rocked back and forth. I rubbed my cheek along his jaw and neck, new tears running down my face. I felt a sudden sharp pressure erupt in between my ribs and hipbones, but dismissed them as John's hands after he groaned and pressed further into my neckline. Warmth gently streamed from, what I believe to be, the tips of John's fingers. I shuddered lightly as the liquid passed through my thin shirt and slicked over my skin.

I remember how all this felt, the memories flooding into my mind, waiting at the hospital with Mike, melancholy whispers of death and embolisms and cancer, getting the results, then a few months later, having to brave though the pain and explain to Mike why Mummy wouldn't be coming home tonight, or ever again.

I gripped John even tighter, a torrent of salt running down my face causing me to finally realize why I was here, holding a broken, bleeding man. The only thing keeping John from falling apart was that I was here, and the only thing keeping me here was the fact that John was falling apart.

We were the same.

I mean, not exactly, I like to think I'm more reserved than John is, but all in all, the same. We'd finish each other's sentences, read each other like our minds were linked, sing and play guitar together, write together…

We were the only things the other had.

I loved him.

My heart took off and I sucked a deep breath of air, shaking just a little at my realization. I slowly unraveled my shaking hands from John's hair and brought them to his now sweat coated temples. I pulled him away from my chest, until I could see his red eyes, though only a few centimeters away. I gingerly brought my face closer to John's, closed my eyes and kissed his forehead.

It was kind of a family tradition my mum started whenever Mike or I were having a rough time. I remember it being oddly calming, warm and sincere, though I don't know if it would feel the same to John.

I drew away, brushing my forehead against the spot where my lips had just been, loosing myself in John's eyes yet again.

After just a few moments, the similar feeling of tension fluttered between the two of us. It felt as if the air had become thick, hot comforters and they were being wrapped around both our bodies, one at a time.

I knew there had always been a bit of pressure between us, but it was never as astounding as this. I could practically feel John's heart and lungs as they continued their mundane tasks, pumping and fluttering about. And only to add to this, John's rich brown eyes mimicked my every move. If my eyes shifted to graze along his nose or skirt around the edges of his mouth, I could feel his eyes following mine gallantly.

John sighed, his eyes tearing from mine to profusely flick up and down my face, nervous. My breath caught in my throat as he leaned in just a little, his thumbs slowly dragging up and down my skin.

In a way, I always dreamed about this, _craved_ this. But simultaneously, I knew it could never happen. Not in public, anyway. I'd thought about sharing this secret with John, vowing to only let all these emotions out behind locked doors, together.

And as his mouth met mine gently, I had hope that maybe, we could make that dream a reality, together.

* * *

Hello again!

I've been gone for a while, school has been taking a toll on me. :(

But, this week was Spring Break, so I finished this today. Though I'm not sure if it should end here, because a part of me wants it to end, but the other part wants to continue. xD

Thank you for reading!

-Jamie


	3. Turning Point

For a mere second, I was taken aback by Paul's acceptance, thinking that he'd push me away, call me a queer and run off. But after that insignificant second ended, I realized how goddamn blind I'd been. I had a feeling those looks of longing, sly touches, and bold smiles weren't just bravado, but, dammit, he'd actually loved me, as much as I loved him.

I held a relieved sob in the deep sinews of my throat, pulling away from Paul's warm mouth, feeling more tears pool behind the whites of my eyes. I lowered my head, nearly overwhelmed in this revelation, wondering if it was all just a dream. Paul's dominant hand slithered along my neck, dragging along my hair before twisting into it, as his opposite limb rotating to rest on the crest of my hipbone. His sloping nose gently bumped and slid against my face, wearing alongside my nose, my cheeks and my mouth, saying he was fine with me, he wanted to soothe my pain, he needed me back.

I kept my watering eyes shut, relying on my open mouth and hooked nose to search for my security blanket of a friend, of a love.

My breath trembled though my lips, vibrating off my nervous bones. Paul's mouth enveloped mine, gingerly caressing the air on my skin. I felt myself leaning back from Paul's weight as it pressed further into my chest, politely surging his melting lips against me.

The beginnings of my shoulder blades dug into the sinking mattress as Paul continued to settle into me, the curves and bumps of his stomach and chest matching the nicks and imperfections of mine.

Two broken and scathed pieces joined to make a perfect whole, compensation for each others weaknesses, encouragement for their strengths.

The cheeky little fucker's got me thinkin' all romantic now.

I smiled into Paul's mouth, my hands gliding over his back while my fingertips burned, finding a comfortable resting place on the back of his ribs.

The mix of Paul's slender fingers and my hair lowered and slid onto the blanket below us. Paul took a deep breath and pressed his face to the bottom of my jaw, breathing smiling kisses against my throat.

"John," Paul murmured, uncurling his legs beside and on mine.

I hummed questionably in response, angling my head to skim through Paul's dark hair with my lips and nose.

"I miss this."

For a while, I had forgotten what 'this' was. Now that Paul had mentioned it, the memories starting drizzling in, illuminating my brain on things once past.

Paris, September of 1961. I can't remember for the life of me what day it was.

We had a small room with two single beds, a toilet, and a sink. Bare minimum, left to rely on £100, Paul's near-fluent French, and the persistent urge to explore this huge, foreign city.

No one would've guessed that we learned more about each other than we did about our surroundings.

The edges of my mouth twitched upwards in a smile, "Ya still like banana milkshakes?"

Paul's chest vibrated against mine and his breath pattered against my neck.

Paul raised his head from the crook of my neck, bringing his right arm to circle around my head, forming a mock cradle of sorts. He drew himself forwards to hover over me, a gentle curve on his mouth.

Paul cocked his head to the side as his smiled widened, "To be honest John," then quickly nuzzled his nose against mine in a warm Eskimo kiss. "I haven't stopped thinkin' about 'em."

* * *

Herro! :D

I have a giant urge to have to have it end here... I donno why. :/

Special thanks to the bands _Oasis_ and _Coldplay_, without these guys I wouldn't have been able to finish this.

Love you all! :3

-Jamie

P.S. Super short update... Sorry. :/


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